


'cause if i had my way (you would always stay)

by airot (airota)



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airota/pseuds/airot
Summary: Azir and Xerath through the years--from the very beginning until the bitter end.
Relationships: Azir/Xerath (League of Legends)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 59





	1. i-ix

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time i've ever written a fanfic so hopefully it's good. anyway, this is basically a hella gay retelling of azir and xerath's lore so if you haven't read that you definitely should!

_i. where it began_

At fourteen, Azir spends his days tucked away in the Great Library, hiding from his father’s mounting disapproval and his brothers’ cold indifference. It is here that he finds comfort—beneath the towering shelves of ancient tomes, between the aisles upon aisles of forgotten history, in the tales of the Ascended long dead.

It is here that he first sees the boy—not much older than himself—with his olive-stained complexion and chocolate curls. Azir is skimming the pages of _The Reckoning_ when he first enters, the linen of his ill-fitting robes dragging on the marble tile beneath him. He watches intently as the boy wanders past pillars of gold, eyes wide and filled with awe, lips parted ever so slightly in wonder. He is _mesmerizing_ and when he reminds himself of his studies, Azir finds he cannot look away.

It is when the boy is sitting down, scroll in hand, that Azir is caught staring. He is too distracted by the gentle twinkle in the boy’s eyes as he drinks in the knowledge of the manuscript, the fleeting smile that ghosts across his lips. Azir watches the boy, tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the taut muscles of his arms, entranced by the slight dimples that grace his face, when the stranger glances up, meeting Azir’s gaze.

“Azir!”

Instantly, he is pulled out of his trance. Azir looks up, eyes meeting those of his elder brother.

“There you are,” Adom says, voice heavy with disappointment. “You are late for training. Renekton is waiting for you in the courtyard.”

As he’s being dragged out the door, he takes one last look at the boy, only to find gone.

_ii. spark_

For months, Azir watches him from afar, sneaking glances of the boy from behind dusty pages. Most of the time, Azir finds himself tucked in secluded corners and hidden alcoves in hopes of avoiding his father’s scorching rage and his brother’s attempts to drag him to training. He doesn’t understand why they care. He is the youngest of seven. The closest thing to ruling he will ever get is in the governor’s villa at some backwater colony in the West.

This time, Azir sits huddled over the dilapidated pages of _The Rise and Fall of the Kohari_ in the farthest corner of the Great Library and though he’s tried to decipher meaning from the archaic language of the text, his efforts have thus far proven to be in vain. Hours have passed and the words have begun to blur together—a dark smear across the parchment.

“Need help?” Azir looks up. It’s him. The boy is looking down at him, eyes bright and a small smile hovering on his lips. "The language is a bit confusing, but I could translate it for you.”

“Yes! Uh, yes. Yes, please,” he stammers. But when the boy settles down beside him, Azir can scarcely concentrate on the words flowing out of his mouth; instead, his heart races inside his chest, his eyes enraptured by the fervor in those of his companion.

“Sorry,” the boy says, looking away. “Was I—did I overstep?”

“No, that was amazing! No, really! It was—really good.” Azir blurts out. The boy looks back at him, a hesitant smile ghosting his lips. For a moment, they’re just staring at each other, eyes wide and lips parted; though it lasts only a second, it feels like an eternity.

“So what did you think?” With that, they’re launched into hours of deep conversation. They discuss everything—from Shurima’s countless conquests to ancient Ionian architecture. The two get lost in the history of Shurima’s emperors, laughing about his ancestors’ eccentric vices and their hubris-fueled escapades.

Azir listens to the boy recount the tales of his childhood, of how his father would take him to the capital square to see the sun obelisk at the end of every week. He describes the people of Shurima’s capital, from the gruff blacksmith with only one eye to the jubilant baker who never failed to give, and it makes Azir’s eyes go wide with wonder.

Before they knew it, the two were the only ones left in the library, the sun having set hours ago. Abruptly, the other boy stood, eyes widened. Azir watches the sudden panic wash over his face and frowns.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s late,” the boy says. “I have to go. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Azir breathes, and the boy turns to leave, taking a couple of books with him. “Wait! What’s your name?”

He stops and looks back at him.

“I don’t—I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have—” Azir starts, but before he can finish, the boy is out of sight. 

_iii. insomnia_

As he lies awake, gazing at the dark ceiling above him, Azir thinks about the boy without a name. He wonders about him—where he’s from, where he’s been, what he does—and finds that he knows nothing about him. He doesn’t even know his _name_. The only people who don’t have names, Azir thinks, are slaves. He dismisses the thought immediately; the boy is far too educated, too well-read to be a slave.

When he closes his eyes, all he can see his face, with its sharp angles and glowing eyes. He can see his soft smile when Azir rambles on about the grandiose domes that characterize the Sun Palace or the massive pyramids of the Temple and his chest vibrate with laughter after Azir proposes some ridiculous scheme to erect a monument to the _Xer’sai_ that ate his great-great-grandfather.

Just the thought of him fills him with a strange, inexplicable breed of happiness that makes his heart sing with joy and his warmth envelop every inch of his soul. It fills him with certainty.

 _I must see him again_ , he thinks, as sleep pulls him into her embrace.

 _iv._ _gone_

He doesn't see him again for three days.

_v. bruised_

It’s only when the boy steps into the Great Library a couple days later, bruises marring his perfect skin, lacerations jutting across his chest, its ends snaking around his arms, that it clicks.

 _He is a slave_.

Anger flashes within him. Anger and hatred and outrage spiral through his heart and when he rushes over to him, all he can think is _W_ _ho did this to you?_ As he approaches, the boy’s jaw clenches and he looks away, a mounting sadness in his eyes. He wants to call out his name, to make him face him, but there is nothing to be said.

Lightly, his fingers brush against the boy’s bicep, tracing a scar. He notices the way he tenses under his touch, but he doesn’t pull away. He faces the bookshelf, resolutely avoiding his gaze.

“Who?” he murmurs, rage simmering beneath his quiet voice. He stays stubbornly quiet.

“ _Who?_ ” he presses, looking up from the scar. He is silent. The boy swallows and his hands shake. Finally, he speaks.

“Amon,” he whispers. “The architect.”

He is as good as dead.

_vi. wrath_

They do not speak of his former master—of his mangled body in the sand, his bloodied face crushed between the hands of Azir’s brutish guard. By his command, the boy joins his family’s household slaves, becoming Azir’s personal attendant.

“Thank you, friend,” the boy whispers, as he’s being led into the palace.

 _Friend_ , Azir breathes. His heart sings with joy.

_vii. christening_

The boy is sitting on his bed as Azir lies across the silken sheets, attempting to name his newfound friend. 

The boy gazes out the window, looking out into the city, sunset washing the skyline in gold. The sunlight illuminates the brown in the boy’s eyes and Azir finds that he can’t look away.

Slaves are not supposed to have names. They are doomed to remain nameless forever, stripped of any concept of self, of humanity. But this? This is their secret—precious and lovely and most of all, theirs. They carry this burden—this treasure—together; they share the weight of this forbidden name.

“Xerath,” he says, finally. One who shares.

“Xer-ath,” the boy says, tasting his name on his tongue. He shifts his gaze to Azir and their eyes meet. “Xerath. I like it, I think.”

Azir grins and his heart soars.

_viii. reunion_

“Do you ever miss it?” Azir asks, suddenly, as Xerath dresses him.

“Miss what?” Xerath asks, slipping Azir’s arm through the curtain of jade silks. By now, his master’s cruel whip and fiery temper are merely distant dreams of the past.

“Life before,” Azir says, hesitant. Xerath moves to face him. His delicate fingers press against his chest as he buttons the front of his robes and Azir can’t stop staring at him. They’re so close and if Azir only presses an inch forward, they would be—

“No,” Xerath says with certainty. “Not since—not since meeting you.” Azir’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he looks up at his servant. “Sometimes I miss my parents.” His jaw clenches as he speaks. “My father was forsaken, left to die after his legs were crushed beneath the stone of the Emperor’s monument. But my mother left me. Abandoned me with the architect, like they abandoned my father. I never saw her again.”

“I’m sorry,” Azir whispers. He draws his hand up, wrapping his fingers around Xerath’s. He can feel his body shake beneath his touch, thrumming with emotion—anger, hate, hurt.

“Don’t be.” Xerath looks down at Azir and for a while, they just stand there lost in each other’s gaze. Azir looks at him and he _wants_. Wants like he has never wanted before. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tension in the air, the lightness in his head. He could stay like this forever, he thinks.

“Azir!” his brother shouts, swinging the doors open. In an instant, Xerath is ten feet away, bowing in deference to the prince as he strides into his brother’s chambers, outfitted in a general’s uniform and a daring crimson cape.

“Nadim?” Azir gasps. It has been over three years since his eldest brother rode out to the east to bring home glory and conquests in the name of the Emperor, leaving Azir alone and friendless. Azir welcomes his brother home with open arms and a warm embrace.

“How old are you now?” Nadim bellows heartily, hand ruffling his little brother’s hair and affectionate smile lingering on his lips. “What, fifteen? Sixteen?”

Nadim lifts his hand, dismissing his guards.

“Sixteen,” Azir says, happily. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Xerath watching him. He wants to introduce them: his best friend and his favorite brother.

 _This is Xerath_ , Azir wants to say. _He is smart and kind and perfect and I think I--I think--_

_I think I am in love with him._

But Xerath is a slave. A slave with no name and no family and no friends to speak of. So instead, Azir says nothing. He can see Xerath shift unpleasantly before turning around and tidying up the room. Nadim takes no note.

From there, his brother tells him of his journeys across the sands. He spins tales of exotic paradises a million worlds away and describes the charming melodies that reverberate throughout the halls, the beautiful stained glass windows that each tell their own story. When his brother speaks of the new provinces added to the empire, Azir notices the way Xerath pauses, his shoulders tense. Suddenly, Xerath turns to face him and Azir is caught staring.

“My lord,” he starts, cutting Nadim off mid-sentence. His brother turns, first to Xerath and then to Azir, surprised and curious, but lacking anger. “May I be excused?”

Xerath’s expression is unreadable—emotionless—but his displeasure is palpable and Azir swears he can taste it in the air. He wants to ask him what’s wrong, to rush to his side and apologize for his brother’s boasts—anything to make things right.

“Yes,” Azir says, finally. “Of course.” And with that, Xerath strides out of the room with the same confidence that his brother entered with. His brother gives him a questioning look but says nothing. To speak to royalty without being first spoken to is in itself a death sentence; to interrupt the heir to the throne while he is speaking is to invite suffering beyond imagination. And yet, Azir yields to him, lets him go without a rebuke.

 _Interesting,_ Nadim thinks, watching the slave boy leave. _Quite interesting._

_ix. adoration_

Springtime in the capital is a wonder in itself. The palace gardens brim with exotic perennials from all corners of the empire, a tribute to the greatness of Shurima. Paved paths of sandstone split acres and acres of lush fields of grass and deep green shrubs, dotted with red and splashes of yellow, line the pavement. Thick vines climb the white trellises of the garden and pale flowers emerge from their stems.

In the evening, it is even more beautiful, especially now; the premises are covered with lanterns to welcome home the crown prince—the heir to the throne—back home.

Deep within the gardens, Azir stretches out in the grass beneath the moonlight, Xerath seated at his side and no guards in sight. From here, Azir can see the small movements of Xerath’s arm as he sketches a lavender hyacinth, carried all the way from Icathia. He watches, entranced by the focused expression on Xerath’s face—the way he knits his eyebrows as he peers up at the flower before him, the set in his jaw as he examines the curves of each petal. The warm glow of the lantern light illuminates what the moon does not.

“Azir?” Xerath has turned to him now, catching him in his trance. He looks away quickly, pretending to find the grass quite interesting. Xerath’s concerned expression quickly shifts into something much more mischievous.

“What?” Azir mumbles, face heated. He turns his body away, but Xerath’s gaze burns holes into his back.

“Were you staring at me?” Xerath teases. He can hear Xerath shift in the grass beside him, can feel the warmth of his body as he scoots closer.

“No!” Azir denies vehemently, wishing the earth beneath him would just swallow him whole.

“What’s so interesting, _my lord_?” Xerath asks, drawing out his title in mock deference.

At that, Azir goes to hit him, but Xerath catches his wrist with ease. His touch burns, fills him with a heat he can’t comprehend or explain. It makes his heart beat faster and faster, while his head seems to spin. Xerath is still laughing when Azir turns around to face him. He swings at the other boy with his loose arm, but it is caught just as easily.

“Let go,” Azir commands, still avoiding Xerath’s gaze, like maybe it will stop him from seeing his heart in his eyes.

“No.” Azir twists his arms out of his grasp and launches himself at his companion. The two wrestle for control in the warm grass beneath them and without realizing, Azir finds himself laughing too. When Xerath traps him beneath him, he pauses for a moment before wiggling out beneath him and runs across the field.

He feels alive like this: sprinting across their own little haven with the cool evening breeze flowing through his hair. It’s just them out here, free from bothersome titles and meaningless status. They are alone here—safe.

It feels like he’s been running for an eternity when Xerath catches up to him, sending them tumbling through the grass. Azir is lying on his back when they fall, Xerath’s hands on either side of Azir’s head. Slowly, their giggles fade into the night until all that is left is the sound of their heavy breaths and pounding hearts.

“Azir,’ Xerath murmurs. His heart races and suddenly, he is hyper-aware of everything—the beads of sweat forming on Xerath’s forehead, the hard press of Xerath’s leg between his thighs, the way Azir’s own desire, his want, is reflected in the eyes above him. And _oh_ , how he _wants_. He wants to feel the press of Xerath’s soft lips against his own, to feel his calloused hands on his body, to stay like this forever—just them together against the world.

When Xerath doesn’t move, Azir doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t _stop_ and _think—_ before leaning up and pressing his lips against the other boy’s. The kiss is brief. Chaste. Innocent. It ends just as quickly as it begins and before he knows it, Azir’s head returns to its place in the grass.

As they lie there, unmoving, Azir feels the rapid, steady beat of his heart, can hear it in his ears. The silence is deafening, the space between them suffocating. When Xerath still says nothing, Azir can feel his heart drop, the shame leaking through. He worries that Xerath will push him away, cast him aside in disgust and disdain. He wonders if, perhaps, he had misread the signs: the longing gazes, the fleeting touches, the affectionate words.

But when Xerath places a warm hand on his cheek, thumb tracing his lips, and kisses him—deeply and fervidly—with years and years of pent up desire and longing, all of Azir’s fears and worries and doubt are silenced. All he can think about is the way Xerath’s tongue traces his lips and explores his mouth; in the moment, it feels like all of Azir’s foolish hopes and senseless dreams have all come true all at once.

Eventually, they separate, panting and breathless, and when Azir sees the same elation in Xerath’s face as he feels within, he kisses him again and again and _again_ , willfully ignorant of the consequences if they are caught like this, a slave atop his master.

“Xerath,” Azir breathes out, reverent, worshipful and when he looks at the boy above him, he knows with the certainty of a love-drunk teenager that there is nothing in this world that he wants more than him.

When they tire, Xerath falls over into the grass beside him and gazes up at the moon. They lie there for a while in a calm, peaceful sort of silence; it is comforting and steady and nothing like the tense quiet of moments before. It feels _good_. Feels _right_.

As Azir’s hand finds Xerath’s and their fingers clasp together, he turns to face the other boy, gentle moonlight illuminating their faces.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say.

So he does.

-

_tbc._


	2. x-xiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so apparently i posted this without like 90% of the last chapter lmfao

_x. sanctuary_

When he wakes up, Azir wonders if it was all just a dream. When Xerath enters his room with two other slaves to get him ready for the day, he bows, low and graceful, and when their eyes meet, it is like nothing has changed. The observation sprouts thousands of possibilities. What if it really was a dream? What if he had imagined the whole thing? What if—what if Xerath had simply regretted it?

As the two women draw his bath and set out warm towels and fresh clothing, Xerath pauses, Azir’s bathrobe in hand. He stands, watching Azir as he strips off his night clothes. Azir can feel the burn of Xerath’s eyes on him as he throws his shirt over his head and sheds his underwear, revealing his slim, lanky figure. Though this is not the first time Xerath has seen him naked, Azir still flushes with embarrassment at the scrutiny.

After a moment, Xerath approaches, footsteps echoing throughout his chambers. Azir’s gaze is still on the marble tile beneath their feet when he gets closer. When Xerath stills in front of him, Azir raises his head and faces him. Their faces are mere inches apart now and he can feel their breaths intermingling in the space between them.

They are so close, so close and yet the distance between them is excruciating. As if reading his thoughts, Xerath reaches out and touches him, tracing the sharp angles of his lithe figure with his fingers. Azir inhales, sharp and surprised. His touch is light as a feather and still it sears Azir’s skin, ignites within him desire like he has never before known.

His fingers fall lower and lower, down each of his ribs and sinking to his abdomen until finally they linger atop his navel. He aches. He can’t stand it anymore—the tension, the suspense, the waiting. When he dares to look down at his fingers, Xerath’s other hand quickly stops him, bringing his face up to meet Xerath’s own gaze.

Suddenly, Xerath draws away and before he knows it, Azir is wrapped in his warm bathrobe.

“My lord,” a servant says, standing in the doorway. “Your bath is ready.”

Azir exhales; he hadn’t even realized that he’d been holding his breath. Xerath quickly moves to stand by the rest of the servants.

“Thank you,” Azir chokes out after a moment. “You are dismissed.”

The three bow in acknowledgment and make to leave. As the two women exit the door, Xerath stops before shutting the heavy doors behind them. Azir blinks and suddenly, Xerath is running towards him and holding his cheeks in his hands and kissing him, stealing his breath away in an instant. 

His lips are everywhere: the corner of his mouth, his nose, his cheek, his neck. Warmth floods Azir’s body at his touch. This feels… nice. Good. Pure. He wouldn’t mind staying here forever, he thinks. Like this. With Xerath’s mouth leaving soft kisses across his skin and his steady hands cradling his face. 

“I missed you,” Xerath breathes out when he finally pulls away. Azir laughs, bright and carefree.

“You missed me? It’s only been a night.”

“I know,” he says, smiling at him like there’s nothing in this world that could dampen his spirits. Like Azir is the only thing on this earth that could possibly matter. Like maybe his love for Azir is the same as Azir’s love for him: unconditional, unwavering, immutable.

Eventually, Xerath steps back.

“You should get ready,” he says reluctantly. He steps away and the sudden distance leaves Azir feeling empty, like a piece of him is missing. “Come on.”

Xerath shepherds him toward the bathroom, pushing aside the thin curtain that separates the bedroom from his bath. The room is warm and humid, clouds of steam billowing from the enormous tub in the center of the room. Azir carefully treads the damp tile before stopping in front of the bath.

Slowly, he sheds his robe, pulling loose the knot that holds it together, and it falls to the floor in a mess of crimson and gold. He can feel Xerath’s eyes on him as he dips a toe into the boiling water and immerses himself in the steam. When he turns around, Azir finds his suspicions are confirmed and raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I’ll come back when you’re done.”

“Wait,” Azir blurts out, stopping Xerath in his tracks. “Stay.”

And so he stays.

After Azir finishes his bath and gets dressed, they walk to the Great Library, determined to have some fun alone before his brother’s third welcome-home celebration. The entire way there, Azir resists the urge to hold his hand and lace their fingers together, but when they settle down in Azir’s private study he sheds all his inhibitions. He practically lunges at him, pressing his body against Xerath’s chest and throwing his arms around the back of his neck.

“If you didn’t want to study, we could have just stayed in your room,” Xerath groans, even as he stares at Azir’s lips and runs his hands along his body’s hard edges. Azir only hums in acknowledgment before leaning forward for a kiss.

They stay like that for a while, Xerath standing over Azir as he leans into his warmth, until eventually Xerath draws away and demands that they at least pretend to be productive. Reluctantly, Azir agrees and brings out the decrepit records of a Meridian arcane amulet that had recently caught Xerath’s interest.

Lately he’s been obsessed with the idea of some lost power hidden in the ruins of Shurima for reasons Azir cannot decipher. But he embraces it anyway, because the light in Xerath’s eyes when he talks about the possibility of discovering this power and seeing these ancient artifacts for himself makes Azir dizzy with affection.

These days, Azir spends their trips to the library learning about his father’s predecessors (or as his father would call it, reading about the achievements of better men) in between long hours of watching Xerath study the dusty maps and yellowing scrolls.

Today, Azir doesn’t just watch; he touches, lets himself run his fingers across Xerath’s skin, thumbing the soft indentations of his skin. He drapes himself over the other boy, chest pressed to his back and chin resting on his shoulder as he scans indecipherable paragraphs of ancient hieroglyphs.

Eventually, someone gently knocks on the door and Azir grudgingly pulls away to let Xerath answer the door. After he opens it, a young woman enters and bows. She tells him that Nadim has summoned him in his chambers, where Azir assumes all his brothers are waiting. He quickly thanks her before giving her leave.

“I don’t wanna go yet,” Azir mumbles, dragging his feet to where Xerath stands. “Can we just stay a little longer?”

Xerath wraps his arms around him and looks down, expression brimming with tenderness.

“We could,” he says, before leaning in close. “But we shouldn’t. The cook will have me whipped.”

“Fine,” Azir cedes, but not without closing this distance and pressing a chaste kiss to Xerath’s lips. He pulls away and makes for the door. “See you tonight then.”

He winks and disappears through the doors, leaving Xerath markedly breathless.

_xi. a land far away_

The celebration is exactly what Azir had expected, though no less thrilling. The banquet hall is alight with jubilation and excitement; hundreds of silver platters cover the tables with exotic dishes from all over the country and lovely melodies accompany the laughter coming from every group in the room. Azir sits at the front of the room, at the table closest to that of his mother and father, with all six of his brothers.

It’s times like these where Azir can forget about his brothers’ unspoken disapproval of his pointed disinterest in the art of war and fighting and _death._ For now, their judgments and grievances dissipate, so only the bonds of brotherhood remain. They spend the night joking about the strange inhabitants of the frontier towns and lightheartedly teasing each about certain ill-advised affairs while drinking copious amounts of alcohol and gorging themselves on roast pork.

Then comes the topic of the Great Journey. Every year, the court goes on a month-long tour of the nation, parading their power and wealth throughout Shurima under the guise of looking out for the welfare of the people. It is the first time Nadim has been back for it and Azir is glad to have him to fill the coming weeks with some other than politics and tension and _girls_.

He is also glad to have Xerath with him. To see him through the long nights and even longer days. To have him near always, even now.

Azir is watching him from across the room as he fills the glasses of some rosy-cheeked daughters of the nobility. He sees the way one of the girls laughs at something Xerath says and is instantly filled with a sudden, irrational spike of jealousy; he reminds himself that Xerath means nothing to this girl, that she means nothing to him.

Still, he can’t stop the swarm of ugly thoughts that flood his head. They urge him to intervene, to ask this highborn girl why she is even talking to a slave in the first place. But Xerath is not just a slave. He is funny and handsome and charming and most of all, _his._

They’re listening to one of his brothers ramble on about being duped by a couple of lowlifes on the way to Ixtal when Nadim nudges him. Azir’s gaze snaps to his brother and finds him smiling back at him knowingly. Azir’s face instantly heats up.

“What?” Azir asks defensively after Nadim still says nothing.

“Tell me about him,” he says, voice low enough so that the crowd drowns them out. Azir looks at him, levels him with a questioning stare. Azir says nothing for a while, thinking.

“He is a good servant,” Azir says finally. “Hardworking.”

“I mean it, Azir,” Nadim cautions. Azir looks away, finding Xerath in the crowd. He takes a sip and winces at the burn of alcohol down his throat.

“He’s smart—brilliant, really,” Azir says, quiet. “It’s like he’s been everywhere. He can understand any dialect of any language, can tell you about any city’s people, its culture, its traditions.” Without noticing, Azir gradually raises his voice and the words come spilling out. “He knows how to read people. One look at someone he could tell you their deepest, darkest secrets. It’s crazy. It’s like he knows exactly what you’re thinking at all times.

“He’s wonderful. He knows how to make you happy, to make you forget everything wrong in your life. One word and it’s like everything else disappears.”

At this point, Azir isn’t even sure what he’s saying but one look at Nadim tells him he’s said enough. He has a soft smile on his face, tinged with gentle fondness. Azir blushes and looks away.

“You know,” his brother starts, after a while. “When I am emperor, you will not have to hide.”

Azir’s heart stops.

 _I don’t know what you mean_ , he wants to say, but when he goes to speak, his mouth is dry and his lips remain stubbornly closed.

“You will live as you please. Do as you please. Love as you please,” Nadim continues, the words slightly slurred. “There will be no more slaves or slavers. Just free men.”

“You know that is not possible,” Azir murmurs. “The council will never approve.”

“I will _make_ it possible,” he vows, slamming a fist on the table with an anger that disappears just as suddenly as it arrives.

The promise makes Azir’s heart swell with hope despite every inch of his being telling him that it is an empty promise. Noble and honorable, but empty nonetheless. For now, he ignores it. Basks in its intent. In his brother’s protective nature.

“Even so. They will never accept us.”

“I would kill anyone who didn’t.”

“That is not at all how this works, brother.”

At that, Nadim laughs, but it is tinged with a certain sadness whose origin Azir can’t quite trace. He downs another glass.

“You could walk away, you know. To Nyz. It’s far, but not too far. There’s a museum there that I think you would appreciate. One of the largest in the world. It’s beautiful too. The buildings, the beaches, everything. 

“You would like it there, I think. You could go away with him. Disappear. Rule if you want. Anything.”

Azir turns to him and he looks… wistful. He’s staring off into the crowd and when Azir follows his gaze, his eyes land on a pretty young girl with dark hair and bright eyes bringing out food from the palace kitchens.

 _Oh_ , Azir breathes.

As the party rages on around him, Azir dreams of Xerath. Of running away together. Of turning their backs on the vipers in court, the gossips that fill the halls, the imperious priests in the Sun Temple. Of disappearing into the night and never looking back.

It is a lovely dream. (But a dream nonetheless.)

_xii. hearth_

Azir is mildly intoxicated when Xerath drags him back to his room hours before dawn, their footsteps echoing through the great halls of the palace. As they trudge through the halls, Azir can’t help but look up at Xerath. Can’t help but take comfort in the way he holds him close, pressing him against his body. His warmth is strangely soothing and Azir feels nothing but bliss in his arms.

When they get to his room, Xerath gently pushes the door open, careful not to disturb Azir from his resting place. He feels Xerath move to seat Azir atop his silk sheets before drawing away and lighting the candles around his chambers. The warm glow softens the tired look in Xerath’s eyes and Azir wants to reach out, touch, beg for him to come back to him.

Finally, Xerath returns to him. Azir relishes in the touch of Xerath’s nimble fingers peeling off the countless layers of extravagant robes and bathes in the attention. He is pliant under Xerath’s touch, lifting his arms when asked and shedding the cloth when prompted.

Before he knows it, Azir’s body is left bare and startlingly exposed. Xerath turns to fold Azir’s formal robes and goes to retrieve his nightclothes, but before Azir can even think, his hand is on Xerath’s wrist, pulling him back to him. Caught off guard, Xerath drops the bundled up fabrics and dragged ever closer.

“Azir?” Xerath asks, concerned. He notices the way Xerath’s eyes flit quickly downwards before returning to his face.

He doesn’t know quite what he is doing, but it doesn’t matter, because Azir’s hands move on their own. They slip beneath the flimsy white material of Xerath’s garb, exploring every inch of his flushed chest and firm muscles, before floating back up to his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks.

Azir sees everything: the slow rise and fall of Xerath’s chest, the way his lips part ever so slightly. He is _breathtaking_.

On impulse, Azir presses forward, pressing his lips against Xerath’s own and pulling him closer so that he is flush against his chest and his warmth envelops him fully. Azir revels in the taste of Xerath’s mouth and pushes for more, satisfied and yet not. Finally Azir draws back, panting, desperate for air.

“Stay,” he says, after a moment, and it’s like those words trigger something in Xerath’s head because he starts kissing him again—all passion and want and _desire_ . He pushes Azir further onto the bed, nudging aside each of his legs until they are close, _so close_.

Azir’s hands move of their own accord, ripping off the thin fabric that conceals Xerath’s lithe figure, his toned abdomen. He tugs him forward and scoots back onto the sheets, guiding Xerath over him. Suddenly, Xerath’s knee is slotted between Azir’s thighs; one hand is buried in the sheets beside Azir’s head holding him up, while the other is roaming the soft expanse of his slender frame.

_(Breathless, Xerath takes in the beauty of the boy beneath him and wonders if perhaps he could be happy like this. As a mere servant. As the prince’s lover. He knows he will not. Can not. Perhaps he will never be satisfied.)_

Azir gazes up at Xerath once he pauses, hand resting on Azir’s hips and eyes capturing the memory of his exposed body beneath his, vulnerable and trusting. He would give up his body, his soul to the exquisite being above him. He’d give Xerath the whole empire, the world— _anything—_ if only he asked.

That night, Azir gives himself over to Xerath fully and completely and when they ride out the next morning, a warmth swells within Azir that will not be extinguished in this lifetime.

_xiii. boom_

They sneak away beneath the cover of the night sky, stars smiling down upon them. It was Xerath’s idea—to slip away under the cover of darkness and map out the stars. Just the thought makes Azir’s heart race, his head dizzy with anticipation.

The heat of Xerath’s hand wrapped around his wrist, leading him into the night, is intoxicating and all Azir can think about is Xerath’s lips on his, the way his hands felt on his cheek, on his hips, on his--

Azir flushes.

When they arrive at the clearing, a sparkling oasis in the dry, desert country, Azir lays out blankets of Volvan silk, while Xerath unpacks the bundle of parchment and jar of black ink behind him. They settle down on the sheet together, Xerath sitting upright and Azir beside him, leaning his head on his shoulder.

As Azir points out the glimmering constellations that dot the heavens, Xerath marks them on his makeshift map. Some time into the night, Xerath wraps his arm around Azir, pulling him closer and the ensuing warmth makes Azir’s heart flutter with a million different feelings all at once.

It’s got him thinking about everything that they could be if things were different. If Azir had not been born a prince and Xerath a slave. If they were not trapped under his father’s watchful eye and the capital’s countless whisperers.

He dreams of a reality in which they are just Azir and Xerath. Not Azir, the crown prince, or Xerath, the slave whose name is doomed to be lost to time. He imagines living out in the countryside with nobody to bother them or tell them that their love is a vile thing, sinful and destructive. He imagines not having to hide from the world, to pretend that Xerath is worth less to him than the dirt beneath his sandals. He imagines not having to disguise his affection—his devotion—from his brothers, his father, his mother.

Eventually, Xerath realizes Azir has forgotten about the stars above and tucks away the ink and paper before lying down on the blanket. Azir eagerly follows, placing his head flat against Xerath’s chest. He cherishes every little detail of every moment with Xerath, from the soft thump of heartbeat to the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“Maybe we could just stay here,” Azir whispers into the night. Xerath’s chest rumbles with soft laughter.

“I’m serious,” Azir pouts. Xerath stills and tenses for a brief moment. Finally, he speaks.

“Azir,” he says solemnly. “They would search for you and they would not leave until they found you.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Azir presses. He is the seventh son of a father that expects too much. A failure. His father would be glad to see him gone, Azir thinks.

“They would. You are the crown prince and to abandon you would bring shame to the dynasty,” Xerath tells him, mildly disapproving.

“They wouldn’t,” Azir continues stubbornly and a sudden influx of anger overcomes him. “We could run away if you wanted. But you don’t.”

“Azir.” He sits up, lifting his head from Xerath’s chest.

“We could go away together and never look back. Nobody would stop us. Nobody would look for us. It would just be you and me against the world and nothing else would matter.”

“Azir.” Passion and fire and rage and _hurt_ overwhelm him and he rises to his feet. He watches Xerath’s expression

“But you are so _afraid_ ,” Azir says, voice breaking. “Maybe you don’t even care.”

“ _Azir!”_ Xerath booms and suddenly, he is on his feet and his hands hold Azir’s wrists painstakingly tight in his grip. Azir’s heart pounds in his chest and he can feel the tears well up in his eyes. “Listen to me. We would not survive. Your father would have us both killed. 

“They would hunt you down for daring to run away! And with a slave nonetheless! They would spin some story about the slave who dared kidnap the prince and execute me in the public square to serve as an example. Mount my head on a pike to remind you of your foolishness! And that’s if they did not kill you first.”

Azir’s whole being shakes with emotion, though which he knows not. He wants to hit, to kick, to scream at the world for being so cruel and unforgiving. To curse it for its unfairness and prejudice. In the end, Xerath is right; they both know it. But how he wishes, for once, that he was not.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice trembling as he holds back the tears.

_Why am I crying? Perhaps my father is right. That I am not worthy of his name, of my title, if I cannot even bear the simple realities of this cruel world._

But with a single motion, Xerath banishes the thoughts, pulling him closer and pressing him against his chest, warm and comforting. Xerath buries his nose in Azir’s hair in hums. He feels like home. Like safety. Like acceptance.

“It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay,” Xerath whispers into his brown locks, soothing. Xerath moves his hands to rest on his arms. His touch is like the hearth: pleasant and welcoming.

“Are you cold?” Xerath asks, after a moment. Azir nods, head still resting against his chest. “I’ll go get another blanket from the caravan.”

Azir groans in protest, pulling Xerath back when he tries to leave.

“Just use that one,” Azir says, voice muffled against Xerath’s chest still.

“It’s dirty,” Xerath says. “Besides, it will only take a minute.”

“Fine,” Azir cedes, but Xerath stays with him for just a moment longer before pulling away. As he leaves, he places a final delicate kiss atop his head and disappears into the night.

Azir feels his loss immediately and settles down onto the blanket, gazing up into the heavens. Again, he begins to daydream. He thinks about what could be if his brother’s idealistic dream comes true. If Xerath is emancipated and they are finally allowed to love freely, instead of only behind closed doors or miles into the country.

But it is impossible. This, Azir knows. Even if Nadim wanted to—if it wasn’t some alcohol-induced whim—the nobility would ensure it never occurred. Everything relies on the bondage of Shurima's slaves. Their position, their wealth, their _power_. Shurima’s high society will never let any of it go, will cling to it with their last breath.

Even if his eldest brother did go through with it, death would be inevitable. They will have him slaughtered in his sleep, leave his body there as a warning to the next in line. They are bold and shameless and they will not let a silly little thing like morality stop them from keeping their power.

To eliminate slavery, one would need power, _immense_ power. But how, Azir does not dare hope for. Does not think about. For Ascension is for only the select few. For those chosen by the sun itself. The thought sparks a tiny, disgraceful flicker of hope within him.

When Azir hears the light pad of footsteps approaching, he smiles.

“ _Finally_ ,” Azir groans, sitting up. “Could you walk any sl--”

The boy before him is no older than himself. He is gaunt, body thinned by malnourishment and hunger; his body shakes with frailty and anger, as he points a crude dagger at him. Azir’s mouth goes dry. His heart pounds in his chest and for once in his life, he is really and truly _afraid_.

His eyes dart around the surrounding area and he finds nothing with which to defend himself. He does not know where Xerath is, how far he is, or if he was caught sneaking back into the camp by a guard. Or perhaps an assassin. The thought makes Azir go dizzy with nausea. No. No, he could not have been. They would not kill him; he is merely a slave. He does not even know if this boy is the only one. A rogue. A stupid, stupid boy. A _child_.

When he raises his hands in surrender, the boy flinches.

“You,” the boy starts and his voice shakes. “You are the reason we suffer. Why my brothers were butchered in the streets like _animals_. Why my sisters were ripped from their homes and our village razed to the ground.”

The accusation damns him, pierces his soul, even though he knows not what he did.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers. He does not know what to say. He is not ready to choose his last words. To die out in the middle of nowhere. To depart from this world knowing that he had hurt Xerath and not atoned for it. “I don’t know what it feels like. To lose everyone you love.”

The child prowls around him, knife still pointed at his neck, until finally he stops behind Azir and positions the jagged edge at his neck. Still, Azir pities him. Feels for him. Wishes he could give him a better life, restore his family, make everything okay. And yet.

“You will. Soon. They will join you in—”

Whatever happens after that is a blur to Azir. He can’t remember how it all happened, just that when he turns around, the blade is lying on the ground, blood dripping from its edge. It takes Azir a moment to realize it is his blood on that knife. It is his blood that stains the white silk beneath him a visceral, hateful red.

Then, it is like time slows down. He sees Xerath pinned to the ground with the assassin’s gaunt hands wrapped around his neck. Both shake with exertion. Xerath’s hands grab weakly at the boy’s wrists. Xerath is suffocating. Dying. _Xerath is dying._

All sympathy he may have had for the wretch dissipates in an instant. Without hesitation, Azir takes the knife and drives it through the boy’s neck. His hands loosen their grip and he collapses. Xerath is gasping for air on the ground, the would-be assassin’s body on top of him. Azir throws his frail, lifeless body off of him and doesn’t watch as the blood spills out of his mouth and stains the ground beneath him.

He rushes to the ground beside Xerath and wraps his arms around his neck, clings to him like his life depends on it.

“Azir,” Xerath says, still breathless. “You are bleeding.”

He lets go and looks down at his side and only then does he notice the jagged gash decorating his flesh. When the wound is covered and the bleeding is stanched, Xerath helps him to his feet.

“We must get back to the caravan,” Xerath says. Immediately, Azir is reminded of the boy’s words and panic fills his entire being.

“My brothers,” Azir whispers. “My mother, my father.”

“They are probably fine,” Xerath says, comforting, though there is a hint of apprehension. Of fear.

They hurry back to the camp, but not without Azir grabbing their maps. As they approach the caravan, he hears them. The wails of pain, the shrieks of terror. They are sounds he will never forget. Xerath squeezes his hand ever tighter, pulls him closer.

He can smell the smoke from here, feel the heat of the fiery tendrils as they reach for the sky. They walk to his brothers’ tent, where he was supposed to be sound asleep. Where he was supposed to die.

“Close your eyes,” Xerath says.

“No,” Azir replies, clenching his jaw. He will see this. This time, he will not turn away. Will not cower in fear. Will face his reality, no matter how cruel. No. This time, he will not be the coward his father believes he is.

Advisors, servants— _everyone—_ is running about the camp as if they have lost their minds. People are shouting, screaming for help. He can hear the loud boom of the Commander of the Guard’s voice as he belts out orders at someone, _anyone_.

As they reach the tent, Azir sees it. The dark stream of blood flowing out from underneath the curtain, like red wine. Smoke from a nearby carriage stings his eyes, but he cannot look away. The tent looks strangely peaceful like this, he thinks absently. Undisturbed in a makeshift city in flames.

They stand there for a while, in the center of the clamor. Azir is still. It is like he forgets to breathe. How to feel anything but rage and hatred and _grief_. Azir says nothing, so neither does Xerath. He just pulls him closer, even surrounded by the court sycophants and their underlings. In that moment, it is like nothing else matters.

When the inferno has died down and the royal guard appears to have recollected themselves, Azir’s father approaches, his queen by his side. When he sees his parents, Azir feels relieved. Relieved that he has not lost his whole family. That he is not alone in this world. But when he looks to his father with searching eyes, he sees nothing but cold indifference and a determined clench in his jaw. The Emperor does not even glance at his youngest son.

Beside him, Xerath steps away, placing enough distance between them so that nothing appears amiss. His absence does not go unnoticed and Azir feels suddenly, terribly alone.

He watches as his father marches toward the tent with the Commander trailing behind him, fear in both their eyes. Azir is not stupid. He knows what it is they are so afraid of. The Commander fears for his life, for the punishment that is yet to come for letting six of the Emperor’s sons get butchered in their sleep; his father fears that Azir is now the heir, that his scrawny, disappointment of a son will succeed him as Emperor. The thought makes him bitter with resentment.

When his father gets closer to the tent, he pushes Azir aside and he stumbles into Xerath’s open arms. Quickly, Xerath separates them again, though this time he does not stray far.

“Bring them to me!” his father shouts, anguished.

“But Your Excellency--” his shadow cries.

“Now! I will see my sons!’

He does not know how to feel. It is like a million emotions are wrestling inside of him: loathing, horror, despair, anguish. He wants to scream at his father. To tell him that he is right here. His last surviving son. His heir. But he does not. Because his brother’s bodies have not yet cooled and he will not disrespect the memory of his brothers with such blatant childishness.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Azir,” Xerath murmurs, voice clear through the ringing in his ears. “Please. Close your eyes. You should not see this.”

“I can’t,” Azir chokes out. “I must.”

“Please,” Xerath begs. “Do not look.”

The bodies of his brothers are carried out one by one, from youngest to oldest. He dares not look at any too long. At least, not until the last one. When Nadim’s mutilated corpse is brought out into the open, Azir feels himself go numb with agony. Across his chest, is carved the word _murderer_ , damning and absolute. Azir drops the sackcloth, the noise from its fall masked by calamity.

Eventually, the grief overwhelms him, implores him to turn away from this disastrous sight before he implodes with the desire for vengeance. He will kill whoever has done this. The fool who has caused his suffering. Who has broken him. Who has eternally disgraced the memory of his loving, fool-hardy brother who dreamed too big and shot too high.

When he cannot take it anymore, Azir walks away. He stumbles away from the mess behind him until he can no longer hear his father’s mournful cries of pain and his mother’s heavy sobs; he does not know where he is going, but neither does he care. He walks until he is at the edge of the camp, until it is just Azir and Xerath.

“Brother,” Azir whispers, even as his voice rises with emotion. “Why? _Why?_ ”

He turns to Xerath, pleading, though for what he does not know. There is a deep sadness in his eyes. It does nothing but make Azir even more hopeless, more _lost_.

His mourning is cut short when he hears the thunder of hooves approaching from the vast nothingness of the desert. They are his father’s men and on their horses are men— _no, mere boys—_ with their hands secured behind their gaunt backs and heads covered in sackcloth. There are five.

“My prince,” their captain says, bowing. “We have caught the perpetrators. What would you have us do?”

“Bring them down,” Azir commands, strangely calm. Steady. “Line them up and remove the hoods.”

For a moment, Azir stays silent, watching the rebels as they struggle fruitlessly against their bonds. Even in his grief, his anger, Azir notices their slender frames, the way hunger clings to them like a mother to her child. He sees the hollowness of their cheeks, the tired, desperate look in their eyes, but there is a fire to them. Bright and angry and inextinguishable.

Even now, forced to their knees before their prince, they are bold. They stare him straight in the eye. They no longer struggle. They are _proud_. Proud to have shed the innocent blood of his beloved brothers. To have caused the crown prince suffering beyond imagine.

It is then that Azir decides that they will know true suffering. That they will suffer as he has.

“Build five pyres,” Azir says. Still, they do not flinch, do not even react to his words, save the youngest one. He looks to be only a couple years younger than the prince. Azir can see the fear mounting in his eyes and knows that he will not last long.

“My prince,” Xerath pleads, even as the soldiers move to fulfill their lord’s command. “Do not let your desire for vengeance cloud your judgment. Do not stoop to their level. Let your father deal with this. Let their blood be on his hands.”

Only when the pyres are built does Azir speak.

“Bind them to it,” he directs. “Bring me the perfume from Lys.”

“Please!” the youngest one cries. “I didn’t know! I was forced to! I had no choice!”

When Azir gives the signal, the assassins are doused in the scented liquid and the overpowering scent of hyacinths and lavender infiltrates his lungs. He ignores the broken screams coming from the boy and beckons the captain closer. The torchlight illuminates the quiver in one’s jaw, the subtle way in which they radiate terror. He wonders if they have considered that perhaps his brothers felt this way as they were maimed by savages.

“My lord?” the captain speaks. Azir only nods and with that, the torch is thrown into the wood and the pyres burst into flames.

As the acrid scent of melting flesh mixes with the flowery aromas, Azir feels nothing. He gains no relief as he watches them writhe in pain, struggling to break free from their bonds as the flames creep ever closer. Inevitable. Inescapable. He feels no satisfaction as he listens to their desperate cries for help or while they beg to be put of their misery. For mercy.

Azir watches the flames before him with blank eyes and feels nothing as Xerath turns away the traitors. From Azir.

And when their screams have died down, disappearing into the night forever, Azir walks away, leaving their maps—his hopes for peace, his dreams of a better future—in the dust, he feels nothing but desolation and emptiness.


	3. xiv-xviii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowee i haven't wrote in a while. i dunno if anyone cares about this anymore but here i am anyway. if you liked it though, leave a comment!! i live for that honestly.
> 
> also i can't write smut if that wasn't painfully obvious

xiv. ache

They ride back to the capital the next morning, the now cold bodies of his brothers resting in the cart behind them. Azir sits in the carriage alone, save for Xerath who sits across from him in silence. There are two guards on each side of the cart, placed there by his father to protect his last living son. He imagines that it was painful for him. Remembering that Azir exists.

He knows that if given the chance, his father would trade Azir’s life for any one of his fallen sons. His _true_ sons. Azir wonders if even now, the Emperor wishes him dead.

A part of him wishes he were dead. That his brothers had lived and he had died. He tells Xerath so.

“Do not say that,” Xerath says, harsh and angry.

Azir says nothing, looking out the carriage at his guards. They are for show, he imagines. They must be. How then could five _boys_ enter his brothers’ tent undetected? Slaughter all six in their sleep like helpless sheep? Burn down the entire encampment with such ease?

“Azir.” Xerath’s voice is filled with a strange hurt. He looks up and his expression is enough to melt away the hate in his heart, for Xerath was not meant to look sad. “I am glad that you are alive. That you are safe.”

The words make him regret. Xerath had _saved_ him. Lunged at his attacker without hesitation, without a second thought. And yet he is so eager to throw his life away, to cast away this blessing, _this gift_ , like it was worth less than the dirt beneath his feet. The guilt eats at him, gnaws away at his resolve. He is _indebted_ to him.

“Sorry,” he says. But it does nothing to undo the hurt.

He will make up for it, he swears. He will pay this debt some way or another. Perhaps, he will ask his father to set him free, to grant the savior of his last surviving son one wish. Maybe then he will have made up for his caustic indifference. For his cruel words and cowardice.

He wonders if Xerath would stay if he were set free. If he would stay with him without the chains the bind him here.

The days and nights pass. Azir’s sleep is marred by nightmares of his brother’s mutilated bodies, of blood and smoke and flames. He dreams of abandonment, of betrayal. Of Xerath’s back as he walks away.

When they arrive at the palace, there is only silence. There is no fanfare, no beating of drums, no music to celebrate the premature return of the king and the corpses of his sons. There is only darkness and pain and _grief_.

Azir is led to his room by quiet servants, but Xerath dismisses them almost immediately. Xerath guides him to his bath, pouring water over his still body and gently cleaning his pliant figure. When he is done, Xerath dries him and clothes him before putting him to bed. When he turns to leave, Azir catches his wrist in his steady grip.

“Stay,” he begs, though he does not know whether he means for now or eternity. Perhaps it is both. Xerath turns around, eyes wide and searching, but he stills nonetheless.

That night, he falls asleep wrapped in Xerath’s comforting arms, back pressed to his chest. For the first time in days, he does not dream.

xv. aftermath

The funeral takes place on an arid summer day, not unlike any other. The sun is harsh and unforgiving even today; its rays shine impossibly bright and its cruel fire burns the flesh of its subjects, indifferent to their suffering. He is seated at the front of the procession with his father and mother, though neither have spared him a second glance. It is like he isn’t even there.

Weeks pass before Azir requests an audience with his father. It is here that he will plead his case, where he will beg for Xerath’s reward. Surely he will not deny his last living son—his flesh and blood—one wish. Surely he would not blatantly display his intense displeasure at Azir’s survival in front of the entire court. It would be disgraceful not to reward the man who has saved his son from certain death.

As he stands before the massive golden doors to the throne room, Azir takes a deep breath and when he looks down at his hands he finds them vibrating with anxiety. He stands a little straighter and wills himself to stop shaking. His father would not deny him something as small as this, he tells himself.

Suddenly, he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, steady. Grounding. He turns his head to meet Xerath’s gaze. He has not yet told him what he plans to do and yet Xerath stands by him, encouraging him to do whatever he has convinced himself he must. Xerath nods at him and Azir is grateful.

Before the towering doors even open, Xerath draws his hand back and returns to his position. Azir turns to face the door and takes another breath.

“The Emperor will see you now,” the servant says, like he is just some common peasant. So when the doors open, Azir strides in with all the confidence that he can muster and approaches his father, his footsteps echoing throughout the audience hall. His father’s advisors surround him on all sides, though some lie in the shadows while others perch themselves at the Emperor’s side.

He has a special hatred for the vipers whispering in his father’s ear, jealous of his power and position and gluttonous for wealth and prestige. If he could, he would walk away from it all. He wants to. With every fiber of his being, he wants to. But what is holding him back he does not know. Perhaps it is pride.

Perhaps, he thinks, it is fear.

(But of what?)

He stops below the dais and bows, low and ingratiating. When he raises his head, he meets his father’s cold gaze with an equally hard stare. He will not be intimidated. Not this time. He has lived his entire life in fear and disgrace for no other reason than his father’s arbitrary distaste for him.

“Father,” Azir says, and he thanks the gods above that his voice does not shake.

“Azir,” the Emperor says, cool and distant. His mother sits beside him, but says nothing, does nothing. His entire being trembles with trepidation. He is tempted to abandon his request, to simply flee from his father’s cool gaze and thinly veiled disgust.

(But when he thinks about the boy—the _man—_ behind him, he remembers why he does not. Why he cannot.)

“I have come before you with a hero. The man who saved my life many nights ago,” he says, voice steady. “When the cowards from Icathia came for me, he did not hesitate to bring them down. He _saved_ me, father.”

For a moment, his father says nothing. He gazes down with his imperious glare and stares at his son, picking him apart and analyzing the pieces for any sort of weakness, any cracks.

“And who is this man?” his father says, finally.

“My manservant, father.” He steps aside and suddenly, all eyes are on Xerath except Azir’s. “I ask only that you grant him one wish.”

“One wish?” His father raises a haughty brow.

“If it pleases you.”

At that, his father stands, abrupt and ostentatious. He steps down from the dais, crimson cape dragging across the gleaming white tile. He prowls closer and the motion combined with his unreadable expression makes Azir’s body thrum with foreboding. When he stops, his father towers over him, tall and imposing.

He knows it will happen even before his father lifts a hand. Azir feels it, expects it, and yet. And yet the stinging blow to his cheek surprises him still.

As Azir brings a hand to touch his cheek, the court bursts into whispers and by noon the whole capital will know what has happened here.

“My sons are dead and you bring me a mere _slave_ ?” his father asks, incredulous. His fury simmers beneath the surface of his quiet, _so quiet_ , tone. Azir can feel someone grabs his arm, pull him back, but he is frozen in place. He cannot move, paralyzed by fear and hurt.

“You are lucky I have not killed you myself,” he continues, his voice just loud enough for Azir to hear, but not the rest of the court. “You are not worthy of the throne.”

And with that, he turns and raises his hand to dismiss him, as if he had not just disgraced his only son in front of the entire court, as if he had not just threatened the life of his last surviving son.

When Azir leaves, he does not flee. Though his jaw quivers and his hands shake, he turns with his head held high and strides out the two golden doors, servants trailing behind him.

xvi. an oath

“Thank you,” Xerath whispers, in the dark of the night.

“For what?” Azir murmurs. “I did nothing.”

As they lie in bed, fingers laced together, Azir closes his eyes.

“You did what you could.”

“How am I to be emperor if I cannot even stand up to my own father?” Azir says, voice suddenly clear. “Perhaps he is right after all. Perhaps I am not fit to rule.”

“You are wrong,” Xerath says. “He is wrong. I believe you are fit for the throne. You deserve it, more than anyone I think.”

It is blind faith, Azir thinks. It is blind faith that has guided Xerath to this conclusion. He does not understand, does not know the cowardice that hides within him, that begs him to take Xerath’s hand and leave this vile place. He has not yet come to know the fear that he holds for his father, who watches his every move for any misstep, any minute mistake. 

He does not know the cowardice that keeps him here. The fear and doubt. The ever present thought that if Azir leaves now, perhaps Xerath will let him go. That perhaps, Xerath will stay here, in the palace. 

(That perhaps, Xerath is only here because you are his only hope of freedom, a harsh, ugly part of him whispers.)

“You don’t know that.”

“You are a good man,” Xerath says, quiet yet sure all at the same time. “I trust you, Azir.”

Xerath squeezes his hand.

“I love you,” Xerath whispers, and Azir’s breath hitches, all of his doubts melting away.

When his breathing has evened out and Azir is sure Xerath has fallen asleep, he makes a promise—an oath--with the sun and the stars above as his witnesses.

 _When I am Emperor, you will be no mere slave_.

xvii. survival

Weeks have passed since it happened. ( _Since Azir was rendered an only child, since he was humiliated in front of the entire court. Since he realized he wasn’t_ enough.) He can’t stop thinking about it, how helpless he’d been when the assassin had come for him, how _weak_. 

That is why his father cannot stand to even look at him. He is but a painful remnant of his brothers, a reminder of what could have been. Azir is cursed with the knowledge that his father feels nothing but disappointment in him, that he seeks a new heir. That the Emperor and his consort are trying to conceive is the worst-kept secret at court and it is as if the whole world knows that his own father doesn’t want him. It is humiliating. As soon as they produce a son, Azir knows he will be disinherited and left nothing but some worthless backwater. The thought eats at him, wittles down his pride bit by bit.

Xerath hasn’t mentioned it since it happened. Azir contents himself with watching Xerath in his study, poring over ancient tomes about legendary kings and the ritual of Ascension. He finds it numbs the pain, just a little. It keeps his head from thinking about his brothers-- _oh, his brothers_.

( _You were weak. You were too weak. Your father knows it. The whole court knows it._ Xerath _knows it, too._ )

As the sun shines through the arched windows, illuminating Xerath’s lithe figure, Azir finds himself staring for just a bit too long, lost in thought.

“My lord,” Xerath says, laughter in his voice, but the words are tinged with concern. “Has something caught your eye?”

Azir blinks, and meets Xerath’s bright eyes, the light of the sun turning them a wondrous gold. It is then that he realizes that Xerath is all he truly has left. It is then that he makes up his mind; he will let no harm come to him, not ever. He must be strong. For his nation, his father, for _Xerath_. 

He will never feel that way again: helpless, afraid, _weak_. 

“Azir? What’s on your mind?” Xerath’s smile falters.

“Just you,” Azir murmurs, feeling much like a child all of a sudden. “I think… I think I will continue my lessons with Renekton.”

Xerath hums in response.

“Yes, I think that is best,” he says. “An emperor must be strong to be respected.”

Azir feels something in him sing at Xerath’s approval. It is silent again, save for the rustle of pages as Xerath skims through another book. Azir stands and approaches the desk at which Xerath sits. He busies himself with studying the growing stack of records with mild interest, but inevitably, his eyes wander back to Xerath’s sunkissed skin and toned muscle.

“What prompted this?” Xerath asks suddenly, snapping Azir out of his reverie.

 _You_ , he wants to say. _I need you._

But instead, he says, “It’s like you said: an emperor must be strong.” Xerath is silent, so Azir adds softly, “And I want to prove that I am worthy of being emperor.”

 _Of your love,_ he thinks.

“Azir,” Xerath says, then, impossibly fond. Yet, there is a hint of sadness that just almost spoils it. He walks toward his prince, hands roaming from Azir’s thin shoulders up to his neck to cup either side of his head. His thumbs stroke his temples in a way that puts all of Azir’s doubts to rest. “You don’t need to prove anything. To anyone. You _are_ worthy. I feel it. I _know_ it.”

The words make his heart beat faster in his chest, makes him feel all types of ways he’d never even dreamt of before meeting the man before him.

When Xerath kisses him, Azir gets a feels an eternal sort of joy like no other. It’s like a blinding light, bright and glorious and perfect. It’s like he forgets all else, sees nothing else, but the perfection of the man before him, beautiful and kind and _warm_. Impossibly warm.

But then, Xerath’s lips moves down, grazing his neck and he _bites_ , releasing a heat in him that could never be quenched by any but _him_ . Before he can think about it, Azir’s pushing up against Xerath’s chest, rutting against him for any semblance of _friction_. He can feel Xerath’s length through his breeches, feel that he’s just as hard as he is.

“Xerath,” Azir exhales, breathless, as he throws his arms over Xerath’s shoulders, pulling him _closer, closer, closer._ Xerath only hums, the vibrations tickling his neck. “ _Please_.”

His hands wander downward, exploring every jagged edge of Azir’s lanky figure, feeling the jut of his hips, the curve of his ass. He squeezes, and it makes Azir arch up into him, face buried into his almost exposed chest.

“Please,” Azir begs, raising his head so he can see Xerath’s eyes, dark with lust, with _want_. God, how it feels to be _wanted_. Wordlessly, Xerath kisses him again, but this time his hands move to the front of his pants and _oh_. He palms his cock through the thin cloth and _ah_ , it feels good--it has no right feeling this good. 

He moans into the kiss and Azir can feel Xerath’s smile against his lips. Then, Xerath breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together so that he can feel every breath Azir takes and hear every noise he elicits from Azir’s sweet lips.

When Xerath unlaces his trousers and wraps his hand around his cock, thumb tracing the head, Azir comes embarrassingly fast, his release spilling over Xerath’s fingers.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but Xerath’s wet fingers find his lips and without question, he takes him into his mouth and sucks, tasting himself on his servant’s fingers. Xerath watches him the whole time, looks on as Azir cleans each digit with his eager tongue. 

At the end of it all, Xerath smiles, pleased, and Azir's heart _sings_.

xviii. curse

It has been five years and still, the empress is barren. People have begun to talk and there are whispers of a curse at court, rumors that it is Azir who is responsible for this misfortune.

At twenty-two, Azir has grown--in height, in strength, in _power_ . But in his heart, insecurity lingers and he cannot abide by the assertion that he is so cowardly, so incapable, as to stoop low enough to curse his parents in an attempt to keep his throne, his _birthright_. 

He executes anyone who repeats this outrageous lie, while Xerath looks on with pursed lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all are still as invested in this as i am ;-;

xix. metamorphosis

Azir is _strong_ now. He takes in the admiring gazes of visiting princesses and aspiring warriors alike with pride. His father’s generals look at him with _respect_ now; no longer do they besmirch his honor with their imperious gazes and haughty frowns. No longer do they see him as the weakling he once was, slender and frail, like a crystal rose.

And yet, his father still looks at him with disdain, with bitter disappointment and shame. It makes Azir’s heart burn with righteous anger. 

_Why do you look at me so? What have I done, father? What_ can _I do? Did you ever—did you ever love me?_

These are the questions that go to die in his throat as he sits with his parents at dinner every evening. These are the questions that make his heart race with trepidation as he opens his lips, only to close them just as quickly. He wonders why he can’t just spit it out, why he can’t just _ask_ , even though deep down, he _knows_ why.

 _Coward_. His father’s voice echoes in the back of his head, insistent and contemptuous. He banishes the thought.

It doesn’t matter what his father thinks of him, Azir tells himself. He is the heir to throne and _nothing_ will change that. 

What matters is--what matters is _Xerath_ . Xerath, who insisted that Azir continue with his training, even when his bones ached with exhaustion and his lungs felt like they were moments away from collapse. Xerath, who encouraged him to better, to be stronger, to become the emperor Shurima deserved. To be the emperor Shurima _needed_.

Xerath who _loves_ him.

Much has changed in five years. Azir has been busy with Renekton, leaving for days or weeks on end to train with Renekton in the scorching heat of the Sai Farai. He is educated in the art of war, versed in strategy and subterfuge alike. Renekton has shaped him into a fine commander--a true leader, or so he says, and the compliment makes Azir’s heart swell with pride.

He never stays gone for long, though. He finds he has a sort of dependence on Xerath. One that makes his heart weary and head tire when he strays too far from his best friend, his _lover_. (The thought still sends his head spinning with disbelief sometimes.)

His mentor looks at the giddiness in Azir’s eyes every time they return to the palace after an extended trip with wariness. They would sit together by the fire on their trips back home, their prey roasting above the flames, making merry.

 _Be careful_ , Renekton would warn, often and without any trace of his former cheer. _You are the Prince, Azir. Remember that there are those who would take advantage of your kindness._

( _At the time, he hadn’t understood. But now… he wishes he had listened. Wishes he could have closed his heart to the love that blinded him and burned it in the hot flames of the campfire._ )

When Azir returned in the dead of night, Xerath was always there, fondness tugging at his lips as he sat patiently in his chambers. He would stand then, taking him into his arms and enveloping him in his precious heat, warm and comforting like the hearth before them. He’d kiss him then, tongue searching and insistent, his hands wandering the length of Azir’s body. And inevitably, Azir would melt for his touch.

After, they would lie in bed, sweat soaked and satiated, and Xerath would tell him about his studies and findings. They’d agreed that since Azir was to be gone for so long, Xerath would be given free reign to continue his research in his absence. Not that Azir quite understood what exactly he was looking for, exactly.

He talks about the mysteries of Ascension, but what is there to know about it beyond what the priests tell them? It is bestowed only upon those who are worthy--to wise emperors and fearsome warriors and cunning strategists. They are the God-Warriors, the _Sunborn_. 

But centuries had past since the last successful Ascension. He’d heard of countless botched rituals, of proud warriors leaving the Sun Disc crippled and deformed. A hollow shell of their former selves, all glory and strength erased. If not for the existence of an entire regiment of them, Azir would think the Ascended were only legends.

It is merely a lost tradition, Azir thinks, even as a small part of him--traitorous, heretical--wonders, _what if?_ What if he had that chance, that honor? Would his father still look at him with such potent distaste? Or would his eyes glow with happiness, his chest swell up with pride?

He thinks of all the _power_ ; his potential is endless. But mostly, he thinks about Xerath. He thinks about all he could give him: power, prestige, wealth. His _freedom_. He dreams of the day he is able to free every man, woman, and child beneath the scorching Shuriman sun, imagines the look on Xerath’s face when he does. Imagines the life they could have together when they are free to live as they are. 

Xerath deserves every gift the whole of Runeterra has to offer and Azir means to give it to him.

(For now, against his father’s wishes, he gives him a small office and access to anything he requires. It is the least he can do.)

Tonight is a special night.

It is the night he returns from Renekton’s final test: a year-long campaign across the Great Sai to take the cities of Bel’zhun and Kenethet from the Ixtali. Azir gets the honor of fighting beside Shurima’s mightiest Ascended, of leading them into battle like he’s more than the green princeling his father thinks he is. It is here that Azir leads his nation to victory. Here that he brings glory to his name. Here where he _earns_ his birthright.

And yet, the high of a battle well-fought his not enough to sustain him on the weeks-long journey home. His nights are filled with dreams of Xerath: his soft lips, his gentle touch, his wicked tongue. Every moment spent apart pains him.

When he slips into his quarters, he’s not surprised to see the fireplace burning hot and feel the steam float in from the ajar bathroom door. Already his face is heated and his heart beats just a little faster in anticipation. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

Slowly, he pulls off his cloak, resting it on the seat beside him. He slips off his shoes, careful not to disturb the steady silence that graces his rooms. Wearing nothing but a loose white tunic, discoloured by his months at war, and thin cotton trousers, Azir steps into the bathroom, hot steam hitting his face instantly.

And there he is, sitting in the pool of scalding water, clouds of mist billowing around him. His back is turned, and Azir can see the wiry muscles of his back and glistening skin; it makes for a tempting sight.

He stands there for a moment, admiring the man before him, when Xerath turns.

“My prince,” he breathes. The water ripples as he stands, moisture spilling down his naked body, and suddenly, Azir is breathless. His tanned skin glimmers in the candlelights and Azir can’t stop himself from closing the distance between them, pulling his closest friend in for a sweet embrace. 

The water seeps into his clothes, but neither of them care. It’s been _months_.

Azir is taller than him now by almost a head, but he is no longer the lanky teenager he was only a few years ago. His arms have filled out and his chest has broadened with countless days spent training in the desert sun. Even Xerath, who’s always been bigger and taller than him, has to admit he’s grown to _look_ like an emperor.

When he pulls away, Azir’s hands find themselves framing Xerath’s face. His gaze is full of awe, of reverence, like Xerath is the most precious thing in his lush, decadent kingdom, like he’s the most beautiful thing in the entirety of Runeterra.

Azir kisses him slow, then. Soft and sweet and pure, like they have all the time in the world. Xerath’s lips are pliant against his--the only way in which he ever yields--and Azir _takes_ . He doesn’t know how long they stand there; the moment seems to last both hours and seconds simultaneously. Azir could get lost in this man, and it’s dangerous, dangerous, _dangerous_.

He banishes the thought.

“You’ve been gone for too long,” Xerath says quietly, as his nimble hands wrap around Azir’s wrists.

“I know,” Azir murmurs. “I know.”

It is quiet for a moment, before Xerath speaks again.

“Promise me,” he whispers. “Promise me you won’t leave like that again. Not for that long. Not for some petty war.”

The words are spoken evenly, and yet Azir can’t help but be on edge. It is unlike him to be like this, fearful and frantic. Xerath has always kept this unbreakable aura of calm that Azir has never managed to mirror. He is too run by emotions, by passion, and Xerath has told him so. 

“I promise,” Azir says, desperate to quell his best friend--his _only_ friend’s--fears. It is an impossible promise, one made thoughtlessly, but also one made in earnest.

(In the end, it matters little, when all the broken promises pile up like ash.)

“Then come,” he says, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. His nimble fingers unlace Azir’s tunic with ease, and Azir slips off his pants quickly, as Xerath leads him into the heat.

xx. rumors

There is talk, of course. Of the handsome, eligible, young prince of Shurima. Of his martial prowess and scholarly wisdom and righteous piety. The common people talk of his conquests in the northern territories and advancements in art and culture. They celebrate the wealth he has brought to the country and bathe in the splendor he has heralded in. 

But there are _whispers_ , too.

There are some among the nobility who disapprove of Azir’s sudden popularity among the people. Who dislike his attitude, who still see him as that reclusive, scrawny child holed up in the library to avoid the politicking of court. So of course, there are whispers. Rumors. Peculiar little theories here and there. Nothing you could say in front of the royal family, of course, but things one might let slip in front of a peasant or a slave.

 _What are the chance that_ he _was the only survivor, anyway? Isn’t it such a coincidence he was away from camp when the… incident occurred?_

_Do you think he’ll kill the baby too?_

_I see that slave in the catacombs far more often than I like. There’s something about him._

_The prince’s pet needs to learn his place. He has no business tarnishing our sacred texts and destroying our ruins with his whims._

_Have you seen the commander who had him flogged after the Prince left? He’s been missing for months._

_Have you seen the way the prince galivants around with that--that slave boy?_

_Sleeping together? That’s ridiculous._

_I heard he--I heard he takes it like a woman._

And one by one, they fade away, like grains of sand, lost to the desert wind.

xxi. change

“I missed you at the banquet,” Azir murmurs, when he finds himself drunk and stumbling into Xerath’s office in the dead of night. The whole day had been filled with drunken feasts and glorious fanfare in celebration of his victory in the North. Nobility from across the nation have come to welcome him home, to meet the victorious prince and pay their respects.

They sing his praises through the halls, write poems about his triumphs on the coast and arduous trek across the Great Sai. It tastes like fulfillment, like recompense for his years spent beneath the court’s withering, vigilant gaze. It tastes like everything he’s ever wanted. It tastes like… _victory._

But still, when the music dies down and the laughter begins to fade, Xerath is the only thing on his mind. And so, he comes. 

By now, Xerath should be sound asleep in the servants’ quarters, but it is by Azir’s will that he is granted the freedoms he has. It is Azir who allows him to spend his nights perusing ancient records or wandering the vast halls of the palace or stargazing in the lush gardens of the capital. Despite their endless praises and pretty words, the nobles are paying very close attention to him and Xerath is no longer beneath their notice.

His advisors worry for the the empire, for his father, for _him_. They warn him of the risks of allowing a slave such power and privilege. They tell him that the people will talk, but all they _do_ is talk, and Azir doesn’t care, doesn’t bother with petty gossip when he has his whole world right here. If Xerath is happy, Azir is happy, and when you have the power and privilege that comes with the title of _Prince_ , that’s all that matters, right?

So what if some wealthy duke or ambitious captain is jealous of Xerath’s growing power and mounting influence? They should be; they will never compare to Xerath with his scathing wit and blinding brilliance and sharp tongue. He is _beyond_ them.

“Did you?” Xerath says softly, a fond smile gracing his lovely features.

“Of course,” Azir slurs, indignantly. “Yes, of course I did, how could I— how could… I mean— I mean what would I… I do…”

Xerath tucks away the papers splayed out upon his desk into the dusty old tome before him and shuts it. He stands and makes his way toward the lounge on which Azir has so gracefully plopped down onto. He looks down at his prince, amused.

“I think is time we get you to bed,” Xerath says, and Azir allows himself to be led to his feet and guided through the empty halls to his chambers.

 _He’s warm, warm, warm._ His body is comforting, safe, like a hearth found in the heart of the Freljord. He smells of freshly baked bread, heavy scent of the kitchens still clinging to his clothes, and he imagines Xerath’s tongue still tastes of sugar and chocolate from his day spent preparing for the celebrations.

Xerath’s hand digs into Azir’s waist, pulling him flush against his side and heat floods his cheeks.

“I thought you hated alcohol,” Xerath teases, soft laughter escaping his lips. “You said it clouded your judgment. Made weak men weaker. Have the celebrations suddenly changed your mind?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Azir grumbles. “I was just— _hic_ — that’s all there was. It’s a feast. And the generals wanted me to. And the other… other people wanted me to. And I missed you. Okay?”

Xerath only laughs, and Azir lifts his head to look at him indignantly.

“Xerath. Look at me.” And when Xerath looks, he’s smiling wide and fond. “I missed— _hic—_ you. And I love you. A lot. More than… more than the— _hic_ — other people. More than… Shurima. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, before stopping in front of Azir’s chambers. There are two guards, both slaves, standing outside, witness to their secret. And yet, Xerath, who is always so uptight about even _touching_ him in public, who worries and worries and worries about anyone finding out about them, says nothing. Just lifts a palm, dismissing them from their posts, and whispers sweet words into his ear until sleep takes him.

xxii. denial

“He is up to something,” his father’s advisor hisses. “You cannot _trust_ him, not with this.”

At the head of the table, sits Azir, clothed in crimson and gold with a crown atop his head. The rest of his advisors sit around the table, armed with their compiled records and scribbled notes. Xerath stands at his side, arms crossed and jaw set.

Azir leans back in his chair, staring at the papers marked with his seal. The meeting has barely begun and already they have words about Xerath. He has grown close to the council members in the months that he’s been back, and Azir would trust each and every one of them with his life. They love him, yes, and their loyalty is unquestionable, but when it comes to Xerath, his best friend, his lover, his _light_ , he knows they cannot be trusted.

News of Xerath’s recent venture into the ancient sun temples, lost beneath the sands of the Sai Kahleek, have reached his advisor’s ears. They have never approved of Xerath’s... _studies_ , but Azir had insisted he continue them. Thus, they are here, stuck in a tiresome, repetitive debate that Azir would much rather avoid altogether.

Finally, he speaks.

“Aamir.” His words are slow. Measured. “I understand your… concerns. But my servant is trustworthy. Capable.”

“Your Highness—”

“His work will benefit the nation, I am sure,” Azir continues, kind but firm. “You have done much for the nation with your wise counsel, but on this, you must trust me. Besides, they are simply ruins. It will be good to learn of our empire’s past, would it not?”

It is high praise for a slave and it escapes the notice of no one. Aamir looks like he is about to protest, but when Azir steadies him with a heavy gaze, he purses his lips.

“I understand, Your Highness,” he says, instead, but his narrowed eyes do not leave Xerath’s face. 

It is yet another reminder that his oath will not be one easily kept.

After the meeting, they find themselves alone in Azir’s chambers.

“God knows how they manage to keep track of their duties _and_ your every coming and going,” Azir sighs, sinking down onto his bed. “They don’t even _try_ to understand you.”

He feels the weight shift as Xerath crawls into bed behind him and when his chest presses against his back and his hands explore his exposed chest, Azir _melts_. Xerath rests his head against his back and inhales, taking in the scent of him.

“Peace, Azir,” Xerath rumbles into his skin. “When you are emperor, you will make them see.”

He covers Xerath’s hand with his and hums.

They stay like that for a while, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, until Xerath moves, hands dipping lower, _lower_ , and lower still. He presses soft kisses against the heated flesh of his back, light and fleeting, and each sensation sends a shiver down his spine.

“Xerath,” he breathes helplessly, as his lips find their way to the crook of Azir’s neck and leave feather-light kisses in their wake. His fingers stroke the inside of his thigh, each touch measured and teasing.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, breath hot against his ear. Xerath drags his other hand up, nimble fingers brushing against his nipple, slow and deliberate.

" _You,_ ” he moans, as Xerath’s hand slips beneath his waistband and takes him into his hand. 

It feels _good_ , feels _right_ , like they’re sixteen and in love all over again, except this time, Azir is the heir to the throne and Xerath is just heartbeat away from freedom.

xxiii. doom

“Mirage is ours, my lord,” General Khaba declares triumphantly, moving a golden sun-disc onto the map. It is a brilliant gold, glittering in the sunlight that streams in through stained glass windows. (The vibrant colors are a reminder: of bloodied hands and burning flesh.) Azir nods, a sign of approval, and the General continues.

“Your father’s empire stretches from the western coast to the borders of Ixaocan,” he says. “I think it is time we take more. The Ixtali raiders from the east are getting bolder, my prince, and if we do not act now, their threat will only grow.”

He continues on about the state of their military and how Ixtal is simply ripe for the taking, but Azir can’t focus when all his thoughts are of the night before.

Suddenly, the door swings open, loud and thunderous, like a terrible omen, and the room falls silent.

“My prince,” his father’s messenger pants. It is a boy of sixteen years, and Azir remembers him from when he used to watch Azir and Renekton train in the courtyard. His father was a harsh nobleman from the west, but he had a kind heart and a bright future, despite being a fourth son. The whole war room turns to look at him, huffing like a wild beast as he bows.

“Speak,” Azir commands, once he’s collected himself.

“The empress is with child— a son, they say,” he huffs out.

Azir goes cold.

xxiv. a look within

 _They will kill him, they will kill him, they will_ kill _him. The words blare in Xerath’s mind, loud and piercing and full of panic, like he’s never felt before._

xxv. plans

Azir is in the gardens again, but this time, there are no lanterns to provide warmth, no lights to guide his brothers home. There is only the cold desert air and the taste of fire and ash and blood in his mouth to comfort him as he thinks of what is to come.

Months. He has months left before he is inevitably disinherited. Until he is sent off to the war front or banished to a province leagues away from the capital. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, going away. It seems he is not as ill-suited for war as he thought he was, though fighting and bloodshed have never interested in him.

“Azir?”

He turns around to see Xerath slip into the clearing, frowning. Usually, it is Xerath doing the comforting, and Azir means to repay him in kind, but he can’t. He wants to tell him not to worry, that everything will be okay, but he is afraid, as it seems he often is.

Azir has never cared about status or power or wealth-- _any of it_ . Not before, but now… He was so close. So close to setting Xerath free, to doing what was _right_. And now, he never will. He will fade into obscurity, just like all the other lesser sons of kings.

Xerath settles down beside him in the grass, and Azir leans into him.

“We could go away,” Azir says, into Xerath’s shoulder. It reminds of a different time, of another night under the stars. A dream he’d had a lifetime ago.

Xerath says nothing.

“If I am to be— if I am to be exiled, then there is nothing left to be done. You could go with me,” he continues, quiet. When there is no response, Azir sits up, taking Xerath’s hand into his and staring into his eyes. Xerath does not look at him. 

“We could travel the world together, settle down in some land across the sea, and nothing else would matter,” he says, getting louder and louder, words spilling out like an uncontrollable torrent. “We could go to Ionia; there’s magic to be studied and I know you’d like the climate there. Or we could stay Ixtal, build some hut in the middle of the jungle together. Or—”

“Azir,” Xerath says. Quiet. Soft. _Sad_. It makes his heart break, just a little bit. Makes him feel stupid, like they’re sixteen years old again and lying beneath the stars, as Azir dreams about another life. But Azir always dreams too big, soars too high, and Xerath is left to pull him back down to reality.

Azir turns away then, lashes wet with _something_ , something like hurt and confusion and disappointment.

 _You’re better than this_ , he thinks. _You are a man grown; these childish fantasies are beneath you._

“Look at me, Azir,” Xerath says softly, palm guiding Azir’s cheek to face him. There is something in his eyes, something more than sadness— something like scarier, some hotter, something like _fire_ . “You have a duty to uphold. _I_ have a duty to uphold.”

And it’s like that night all over again: Azir gets to his feet, a rage fueled by hurt and an inevitable rejection.

“If we go, we will have no _duties_ , Xerath. If we go, everybody wins: my father has me gone, his son will inherit a kingdom, and I—” He chokes, his heart beating a thousand miles an hour. “ _I will have you._

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

It is silent, and the words hang in the air like a confession. Xerath follows him to his feet and stops only a breath away from Azir’s shaking form. He takes Azir’s hands into his, skin soft against his palms, and stares down at them. Then, it is like the world pauses, and it is just Azir and Xerath, frozen in time. Nothing but the sound of their breaths fill the night.

Slowly, Xerath looks up, meeting his eyes.

“And what about what _I_ want?”

And Azir breaks, for a moment.

 _What do you mean?_ he wants to ask. _Is this not— am I not_ enough? 

“Listen, Azir, my prince, my _love_ . What do you hear? Nothing. But in my head, in my dreams, I hear the screams of my father as he was crushed beneath the rubble of coal mine. I hear my mother, begging for my master to take me in. I hear her tears as I am _taken_ from her.

“I was born a slave, my prince; I will not _die_ one.”

“My lord?” Xerath recoils, stumbling backwards, as Azir stands there, motionless. Unseeing and unhearing. It is the messenger from before, and he peers into the clearing, worried and confused. “I heard raised voices, are you—oh.”

But it is too late. He has seen too much. He _knows_ too much.

“I’m sorry, I—goodnight, my prince.” And before either of them can say anything, he is gone.

“We will speak of this later,” Xerath says, and Azir is alone, again.

xxvi. coincidence

Days later, the boy is found dead in his sleep: a heart attack.

_(Azir never hears a word of it. Xerath makes sure of it.)_

They don’t speak of it later. But Azir… Azir understands— or tries to. He is not angry, not anymore, only embarrassed for his naive optimism. He knows how much his freedom matters to him. How important it is to him that nobody suffers the same fate his father did. Xerath tells him that he has been lucky, to meet Azir, crown prince of Shurima, but that others are not so fortunate.

It is honorable, noble, and Azir thinks he has a purer heart than any of the sycophants in the Temple. It is why he loves him.

Still, his words cut deep; they echo in his head along with his father’s disparagments. He’d always thought he would be enough for him, that Xerath could be happy with just the two of them, together and in love. But he was wrong. He was wrong and now his heart can’t take the disappointment.

He worries that Xerath will still be angry at him, but when they’re alone in his quarters, he brushes the hair out of his eyes and wipes the tears from his cheeks; it is both forgiveness and apology in one motion.

xxvii. times up

Months pass and they’ve settled back into their normal routine. Azir has come to terms with his fate and Xerath comforts him with empty promises. He tells him that he _will_ be emperor, that things will work out, in the end. To trust him.

But it means nothing when the priestesses proclaim that the baby will be a boy, that he will be strong and wise and powerful beyond belief once he breathes his first breath. His fate is sealed, his destiny written out for him long ago.

Azir lies down on his bed, arm thrown over his eyes, tonight, while Xerath sits beside him, cross-legged on the sheets, reading something on arcane magic. The candlelight illuminates Azir’s naked body, with only a thin sheet cast over his lap to cover him, while Xerath is only shirtless. Absently, Azir traces the hard edges of his body with his fingers.

“Come to bed,” Azir murmurs, after a while, eyes still shut.

“I’m in bed,” Xerath laughs, and it’s like sweet music to his ears.

“You know what I mean.”

After a moment, Xerath clicks his tongue, and Azir can feel the mattress shift beneath him as he moves to place his book on the dresser. When Azir goes to move his arm from his eyes, he is stopped; Xerath’s hand holds it in place: a command.

With his other hand, Xerath touches him, fingers light and gentle as they dance across his body, from his hips to his stomach. They are slow, teasing, trailing ever so slowly up, up, _up_. He traces each dimple in his skin with his thumb, admiring and reverent, and Azir basks in the light of his attention.

“Xerath,” Azir exhales, soft and innocent.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, thumb circling his nipple, prodding and teasing it until Azir gasps from the stimulation.

“No,” he says, with such conviction that it makes Xerath laugh. Then, he feels something move and suddenly, Xerath’s plush lips are pressed against his burning flesh, tongue wet and hot like sin against his nipple; the sensation elicits a moan from Azir’s lips that make him flush red with embarrassment.

Then, there is a knock at the door, loud and intrusive, and Xerath pulls away instantly. Azir scrambles to get his pants on after they were very hastily thrown off the bed. By some miracle, Xerath is dressed in time to open the door without anything seeming amiss.

When he opens it, Azir peers over Xerath’s shoulder and sees only a female slave. There is something about her that seems familiar, that screams that _something_ is wrong, but he doesn’t know what, _can’t_ know what. Azir hears nothing from her lips, sees only the rushed movement of her hands, and Xerath’s affirming nod.

As quickly as she’d arrived, she is gone. Xerath turns then, without shutting the door.

“I have to go,” Xerath says, apologetic. “I will not be long, but you should sleep, Azir. I will be here when you wake.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, eyebrows creased. What could the slave masters possibly need with Xerath at this hour? They know not to… _disturb_ them. That Xerath is allowed this time to himself. It sets him on edge, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“One of the serving girls has had a nightmare,” he says. “I must be there to comfort her.”

Azir narrows his eyes, then. Questioning.

“Azir, please. It is a kindness.”

“Go, then,” he says, finally. Xerath looks relieved at the words, like some intangible weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He doesn’t know why he doubts the words coming from Xerath’s lips, but he thinks that if he were to lie, it would be for good reason.

“Thank you,” Xerath says with a sheepish smile, innocent and pure, that messes with his head. “I’ll be back soon. I love you.”

And when he goes, Azir shames himself for ever doubting him.

Not an hour later, a servant comes to tell him the news: the empress is in labor.

xxviii. numb

His mother and father are dead. Gone. Lost to the sands of time, like Nadim and his brothers before them. The child did not survive long enough to take its first breath. And Azir feels— Azir feels nothing.


End file.
